Finding Comfort
by Gypsy Rose2014
Summary: NOT A CROSSOVER! :) After a tragedy, Christopher finds himself the object of desire for a young Parisian courtesan.


**A/N: Hello! I've written tons of Sherlock stories, but this is my first time playing with Parade's End. It is NOT a crossover, as was reported, but I hope you'll like it. It does have an OC, but I thought that was necessary for the story I wanted to tell. Anyway, I hope you like it.**

**Disclaimer: The characters within are the creation of Ford Maddox Ford, not me. Well, except for Mathilde.**

He was the saddest man I'd ever seen. But sometimes, the saddest can be the most beautiful. I watched him come in every night for nearly a month. Always the same. He'd sit down at a table in the corner of the bar, hunched over a glass of whiskey. He was well-dressed, clearly a gentleman. Much moreso than most of the men that frequented a brothel. I'm young, but I know this much—money doesn't make a man a gentleman. I noticed him right away, something about his eyes. I could tell they were once bright and passionate, but life and misfortune had dulled their fire. Many of my fellow courtesans had approached him, but he always waved them away politely. I was fascinated, but timid. Most of our clientele here at Madame Robideaux's were poor little rich boys, not world weary men like him. Being the youngest of the girls, I was often charged with either sating the virgin lust of boys or rekindling the fire of codgers.

"Gazing at Monsieur again?" Emmeline asked, so close to my ear that I jumped.

"I'm not gazing," I said, offended that she would think I was mooning over a total stranger. I was, of course, but she didn't need to think so. "I'm just curious about him."

"What's to be curious about? He's a man. They're all oafish bulls. The ones here just happen to have money." She took my shoulders and turned me toward her, looking me in the face with a fierce expression. "Never forget that, Mathilde. Men are only worth what they are willing to pay. Even the ones with the sad eyes and broad shoulders." I watched her walk away. They all thought that I was naïve, these _cortisanne_, but I was well-versed in their ways. I had grown up here, watching every humiliation. How these women used hate as a salve to soothe the pain of their station. And it's true—I could be one of them. A sixty year old man had purchased my maidenhead at the age of fourteen and five years later, I still had not realized any pleasure in my profession. But I saw something in the mysterious monsieur that gave me a heavy feeling in my chest. I couldn't be sure, but it almost felt like hope.

It was another week before I could gather my courage. It was late, much later than usual. Most of the patrons were gone—upstairs or to their beds, sleeping off the night's frivolity. I had made myself scarce most of the night, hoping he would come in. I kept busy, not wanting to think of the time creeping by on the clock. Emmeline tried to throw one of her clients my way, but I was having none of it. I think perhaps I was saving myself for Monsieur. Madame Robideaux herself was concerned, but I just told her I wasn't feeling very well and she seemed to accept that. I knew it wouldn't work for long. Then suddenly, he was there. The rest of the world faded away as he appeared in the doorway. He was tall with the bulk of a soldier. Blonde curls tumbled over his brow and those sad, changeable eyes were heavy with fatigue. His crisp, white shirt hung loosely about his frame and I could see the hard, muscular lines hiding underneath. He went to his usual place and sat down. A few of the more ambitious girls fluttered around him and he waved them away politely, as usual. But I had a plan. I poured his favorite glass of whiskey and walked over, clutching my shawl tight around my shoulders. I didn't want him to think I was some desperate whore.

"Your drink, Monsieur," I said, hearing the words tumbling out of my mouth with a childish tremble. I set it down in front of him and smiled.

"I didn't order a drink yet," he said. His voice was like the rustling of a leather riding glove—low and rough. It gave me the strangest feeling of desire and safety. Though I wanted to hear it more, I could already tell that it wasn't often he spoke. His words were few and precious.

"I took a chance that you would have your regular libation, Monsieur." My English was so slow and clumsy, but he smiled.

"Indeed, Madamemoiselle," he replied, taking a sip. "That was observant of you. My thanks."

"Bien sûr, Monsieur." I could feel the color rushing to my cheeks in white hot splotches. I was thankful for the dim glow of the gaslight. It would cover a multitude of embarrassments. I gave a clipped curtsey and started to walk away, but his voice stopped me once more.

"Comment t'appelles?" he asked. "If you don't mind my asking."

I smiled. Most Englishmen that frequented the brothel never bothered to speak French. As if we were not important enough to actually speak to. "Mathilde," I replied. "Et vous?"

"Christopher," he offered with a smile. I immediately noticed that his smile was genuine and almost shy. It was not the wide serpent smile that reflected a multitude of dark and oily innuendos. It was infectious and I felt myself returning it. "Merci beaucoup," he said. "You're most kind."

I must have looked ridiculous rushing away, nearly falling over my skirts. But I couldn't look into those eyes another second. They could see every single secret that I kept deep inside. They held unspoken promises and lost regrets. Sadness, loneliness and hope lingered there and I couldn't help but be affected. Suddenly I felt light-headed and nearly swooned on to the barstool at my side.

"Are you all right, Mathilde?" George asked, leaning over the bar to lay a steadying hand on my shoulder.

"Yes… I'm just a little tired is all."

He nodded. "It's nearly time to close up. You go on up to bed, cher. I'll be fine on my own."

"Are you sure?"

He nodded reassuringly and I breathed a sigh of relief. The air was too heavy and hot. I had to get out from under his scrutinizing gaze and hurried up to my room without looking back.

**OoOoOo**

When I got up to my room, I almost did feel feverish. My skin burned and I could feel that the dark curls at the base of my skull were kinking and moist with sweat. I dropped my shawl in the doorway and immediately began to unlace the strings of my corset. I needed more air, to inhale the night deeply into my lungs and let it fill me up. I finally pulled it off, nearly fainting with relief. I gulped breath after breath of precious oxygen. It was still so hot, so my chemise was next to go until finally I stood in the center of my bedchamber, totally naked and basking in the firelight. In the dimly lit room, I could make out a nearly empty bottle of bourbon sitting on the nightstand. It was undoubtedly left by my last client. Though I hated cleaning up after others, I was thankful for the sharp, sour flavor. It seemed to bring me back to reality just a little. I clutched it to my chest as I wandered to the vanity and sat down. Setting the bottle aside, I began pulling the carefully pinned curls down until my hair spilled over my shoulders. It looked so black against the alabaster flesh at my throat. My skin was so pale from living a life in darkness. If I closed my eyes, I could remember basking in the sun in the hills above Montmartre. It seemed so long ago. Perhaps someday, I could lie there again in the grass. Perhaps with Christopher at my side. Such a lovely dream, but I knew in my heart it would never be. Gentlemen did not lie in the grass, with whores or otherwise. I smiled anyway, my heart fluttering pleasantly in my chest. It was the first time in a long time I had allowed myself a childish fantasy. Or any fantasy for that matter. Reality was cold. It would do no good to lose oneself in the warmth of an impossible dream. That's what the others said, what my own brain said, but right now in the safety of my room, I would keep it.

My hands slid over my shoulders and across my chest. They moved slow and deliberate, the way I imagine his would as we lie together in the sun. His hands were large and scarred, but he was gentle. With my own fingers, I imitated the way he held his glass and then molded them to my breast. I weighed each one gently in my palm, raising them as I might offer them to his lips. The nipples were a dusky pink that darkened the more I held them as the blood rushed to their centers. My thumbs brush them gently and then I leaned forward, letting the ends of my hair tickle the prickling tips as I fancy his would. Those luscious sable-colored curls that would tumble and twist around the curves of my breast. I stood up, examining my own body for the first time. It was true that a woman of my station spent much of her life exposed, but in my nineteen years, I never really saw myself. The gentle slope below my ribs, rolling gently to the swell of my hips, stomach and thighs. It was womanly and soft and I wanted to run my hands over the landscape. Then the dark thatch of hair that covered my sex. That place that was supposed to be a secret garden of pleasure. I wondered if it ever might be. A hidden place that I could keep only for myself and perhaps for my mysterious new friend. For the first time I thought I might be beautiful. How could he make me feel this way with a simple glance and sad smile? Whatever sort of dark magic he held, I hoped it would stay.

I started to let my hands slide lower. To touch myself in the way that Emmeline and the others had taught me. They had said that it would help to find my own pleasure when entertaining a client. I had done this many times, but with the tiny flutter of pleasure there came a strange despair. I brushed the tips of my fingers against the soft hair, but then thought better of it. I would refrain for now, keeping it for Christopher.

I lay down in my bed and pulled the covers up tight. My hands were clenched tightly at my sides, like I was afraid of what I might do if I let them relax. My mind was awash with a million thoughts, tumbling over one another. The question that burned behind my eyes whenever I closed them was: How? How could I bring us together? It was this thought that kept me awake until the sun began to peek over the horizon.


End file.
